


The Final Draft

by ThedosianScholar



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 06:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11595153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThedosianScholar/pseuds/ThedosianScholar
Summary: The Winter Palace, too much champagne, and a pre-occupation with love letters lead to a night that Hawke and Varric will never forget (especially if the secret court scribes are doing their job).





	The Final Draft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [damalur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/gifts).



> I was both honored and daunted to have been selected to fulfill your prompt, given that your Hawke/Varric fics not only make up about half the fics in the fandom, but also happen to be hands down some of the best fics I've ever read. I hope you enjoyed this little story, which happens to be my first ever in the Dragon Age fandom. It's unlikely it will be my last! Thank you for allowing me to be apart of this exchange!
> 
> Many thanks to my friend Andrea (nerdace on tumblr) for all her support while I cranked this baby out!

The vestibule of the Winter Palace echoed with the sound of politely restrained laughter, scandalized whispers, and purposeful clicks of ornate heels on the marble steps as guests ascended from the lower courtyard. Marian Hawke leaned against the railing in what she imagined was a debonair fashion, dressed in the scarlet and gold jacket that marked her as a member of the Inquisition and a guest of Grand Duke Gaspard. She sipped idly from a champagne flute as she listened to a couple on the adjacent side of the railing have a lover’s squabble over who flirted more unforgivably with Duke Cyril de Montfort, while another group of nobles nearby decried the closure of the Royal Wing Gardens.

This was all useful information that the Inquisition could use, especially the bit about Duke Cyril causing a stir amongst the nobility. She had once flirted rather unforgivably with him herself once at Chateau Haîne, but only so she could swipe a key from his belt and eventually murder his father. Based on the look he’d shot her way earlier that evening when he spotted her with the Inquisition, he hadn’t forgotten her face.

She downed the last of her champagne and set the empty flute on a passing servant's tray in exchange for a full glass. She’d lost count of how much champagne she’d drunk that evening, but given how terribly dull it was standing around waiting for something to happen, Hawke figured she might as well enjoy the refreshments. It wasn’t often she drank champagne, which was a shame as she did rather enjoy it.

Her mother would have loved this: the fashion, the gossip, the intrigue. Marian could picture her now, walking up the vestibule steps in a silk gown with her eyes agog at the beautiful cornices and inlaid marble, even as she adjusted a figurative mask of restraint over her features so that she didn’t appear too green amongst the seasoned nobles. Ever the masochist, Marian pictured Bethany standing next to her mother in an equally resplendent gown, full of the natural grace and poise that her elder sister had always envied, spending the entire evening breaking hearts and chasing after trays of canapés.

It was a shame that the only remaining representatives of the Hawke family were a quick-witted yet crass mage who could maintain an air of civility only when it didn’t stand in the way of a good joke, and a surly Grey Warden whose armor was all that kept him from blending in with the marble statues lining the walls.

Carver stood next to her, grim-faced thanks to his absolute refusal to try any of the alcohol (it made the false calling more difficult to ignore) and absolutely monolithic in stature. She wondered idly if the taint had made him even taller.

As if he could read her ridiculous thoughts, Carver scowled.

“Mother would have loved this,” he said.

Ah, less of a scowl and more of an attempt to swallow back emotion. He made the same face when he was trying not to sneeze.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Marian confessed, too drunk at this point to be anything but frank.

She pushed away from the railing. Carver followed shortly after as she slowly trod towards the Hall of Heroes, pulling the crystal flute from her lips with a frown when she heard the Inquisitor’s voice echoing from downstairs, a door shutting quickly behind her.

Inquisitor Lavellan appeared at the top of the stairs with Cassandra, Varric, and Solas trailing behind her. They were all sweaty and out of breath, with mussed hair (save for Solas, obviously) and rather harried looks on their faces.

Dammit. There had been a fight and no had one invited her.

Lavellan approached the guards at the door to the Trophy Room while the rest of her party dispersed to their posts throughout the palace. Varric was quickest of the lot; Hawke imagined his swift gait had more to do with the guilt he ought to feel for having gone off to the real party without her than any dire need to return to his post.

She set her flute on the railing and marched after him, pausing for a moment before entering the gardens due to the bevy of silk skirts blocking her path.

It semed she wasn’t the only one chasing after Varric.

“Messere Pavus, pray tell, are you well-acquainted with Messere Tethras?”

“Yes, do tell us—is he at all attached?”

“The author’s portraits on the backs of his latest novels imply that he is interested in women. Just… how many women, exactly?”

A loud snort of laughter drew their attention only for a moment before Hawke slipped behind the garden door that led down to le Fumeur. When they first arrived at the palace, she had spent nearly an hour in he smoky courtyard with Varric before the endless parade of, “Oh, Messere Tethras! How I _adore_ your novels!” became too tiring to listen to. She had chased her brother down because _Maker_ , him scowling quietly in a corner was somehow more tolerable.

Right, Carver. She supposed he was still sanding about the vestibule looking as out of place as out of place as Anders in a Chantry.

Hawke almost forgot that she was livid with Varric until she felt a hand grasp at her elbow. He pulled her away from the stairwell into a narrow space between one of the palace walls and the garden’s façade, a space whose purpose Hawke did not need to guess at seeing as she and Varric were practically breathing each other's air.

“ _Shit_ ,” he muttered under his breath, peering sharply past her shoulder to where a gaggle of nobles stood. “I make it past the guards and assassins, yet find the worst of all adversaries waiting for me when I return.”

“The Council of Heralds?”

“Critics.”

He returned his attention to Hawke with a wry grin, expecting to earn a laugh for his cleverness only to find a disapproving scowl. 

“Not having a good time, I take it?” he asked, pretending not to know why she was put out just like she knew he would.

“What gave it away?”

“You’re wearing the same look on your face you did when Merrill asked if we liked her homemade stew.”

Despite her determination to remain cross with him, Hawke couldn’t help but huff with amusement at the memory. “You’re deflecting. Where did you go?”

Varric sighed and lowered his voice even further. “Servants’ Quarters. Most of them had been killed. Found some dirt on Gaspard and Briala, as well as an elven locket in the Empress’ vault.” He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows and heaved a sigh. “We’re still waiting on the Inquisitor’s signal. For now, she wants to see if we can find any more dirt that might help her sort out who the assassin is. I’m sure Leliana would appreciate any further leverage the Inquisition could hold over the Orlesian court.”

“Well,” she replied, sobering at the news. “It’s lucky for you I’ve always enjoyed scavenger hunts.”

Varric grinned. “And snooping in other people’s business.”

“The two go hand in hand, really.”

 

 

Hawke knew enough about the Game to know that the number of letters and incriminating documents scattered about the palace that evening were not misplaced, but rather carefully planted by those who stood to benefit from such information making its way around Court. Rather disappointing for the Inquisition, Hawke felt, were that most of the missives she and Varric found in the creases of seat cushions or fallen behind benches and statues were poorly penned love letters and not documents that might lead to who was plotting to assassinate Empress Celene.

“Maker’s _balls_ ,” Hawke muttered when she read a rather salacious line in one such letter they found in the library. “’ _I cannot wait to enter your velvet temple and worship at your moist altar?’_ This is worse than Swords and Shields.”

“I take offense to that, but only because that shit’s better than what I usually write.”

A collective cry of shock from the ballroom pierced the quiet of the library and made both of their eyes bulge. Hawke stuffed the stack of letters she found inside her jacket and ran towards the ballroom so quickly that she couldn’t remember how they got there. They pushed to the front of the crowd looking down at the dance floor to watch as the Inquisitor named Duchess Florianne as the assassin moments before the guards carried her away.

After the speeches were made and the celebrations resumed, Hawke asked Varric if the Inquisition still needed the letters they’d found.

“I wouldn’t worry about that right now,” Varric said, handing her a glass of champagne. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a night off.”

As she accepted the glass of champagne, Hawke’s gaze shifted behind Varric to where Celene’s Ladies-in-Waiting had boxed her brother up against a wall, clearly having found a new subject for their shared interest that evening.

“Maker,” she muttered. “They’ll eat him alive.”

Varric turned and immediately cackled when he saw Carver’s predicament.

Carver pled silently for their help with wide, terrified eyes, but that unfortunately coincided with the moment they thought they heard voices calling their names back in the garden.

They were still laughing at his plight hours later when they were following a servant up to their rooms for the evening.

“Do you think he would even… y _ou_ know?” Varric asked as they both swayed dangerously close to the wall.

He had to wrap an arm around Hawke’s waist and step in front of her so he could brace his hand against the wall to keep them from falling.

Hawke struggled to breathe as she came down from yet another fit of drunken laughter. “Varric, I beg you—do _not_ make me picture my little brother naked.”

The servant stopped to unlock a door in the middle of the corridor, and Hawke and Varric kept walking until they heard her announce their arrival at Varric’s room. They were now holding each other up as they doubled back, thanking her profusely and unintelligibly as they brushed by her into the room. The servant called after Hawke to remind her that _her_ room was two doors down the hall, but she and Varric had already poured themselves onto the rug by the fire, cackling at Varric’s impression of Celene’s ladies asking Carver if they could see his Warden taint.

It was around that time that Hawke heard the door latch behind her.

She rolled from her back onto her stomach, the crisp crunch of papers against her chest reminding her of the letters they’d been hoarding all night.

Varric wiped tears from his eyes. “I haven’t been this drunk since… Maker, when was the last time Bartrand held one of his parties?”

He stood on shaky feet, bracing himself with one hand against the wall by the fireplace.

“You’re joking,” she replied. “You were four to the floor at Chateau Haîne, and as I recall you re-gifted your dinner to that large urn at the Viscount’s Keep after they named me Champion.”

She pulled the letters from inside her jacket and assembled them in some semblance of order as Varric chuckled.

“Fine, so I’m a lousy drunk. I recall you drinking as much as I did on each of those occasions.”

“If not more,” she agreed. “But by contrast, you must admit that I am a _phenomenal_ drunk.”

“That I do,” he replied fondly, staring at her from where he stood. “What are you looking at?”

“These love letters. My Orlesian is a little rusty, but am I incorrect in assuming pornography isn’t the best way to promote one’s love?”

She showed the letter in question to Varric, who snickered. “No, but attention to detail never hurts.”

Hawke hummed thoughtfully, still reading. “It reads more like a threat than an enticement.”

Varric hiccoughed. “Yeah, well, maybe some people prefer a play-by-play of what’s going to go down. Or maybe they can only write what they want to do to each other since their families or the court prevent them from being together.”

“Oh!” Hawke gasped, unfolding the rest of the letter. “She included illustrations.”

They enjoyed looking at that for a good while before Varric walked over to a table where a crystal decanter of Orlesian wine and two matching glasses sat on a silver tray. “Care for another drink?”

“No need to stand on ceremony, Varric,” she retorted, her hand already extended to receive the glass of wine he was in the middle of pouring for her. “No one is watching.”

He shot her a dubious look. “We’re in the Winter Palace, Hawke. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was in the rafters right now recording our every word in a gold-leaf ledger.”

She took a sip of the wine and hummed appreciatively, then tugged a cushion from one of the nearby armchairs and shifted so that she was sitting on it.

“You know, no one’s ever written me a love letter before.”

She wasn’t quite sure why she said that.

“Well, color me surprised.”

Her cheeks flushed and she took another sip of wine before adding, “Of course, I’ve never written one for anyone else either, so that might explain it.”

Varric carefully lowered himself onto the floor next to her, not spilling a drop from his own wine glass. “Well… you do tend to scare away any potential suitors, especially after you humiliated that poor de Launcet kid at the Feastday Celebration.”

“I never humiliated Emile de Launcet. He was pretty good at doing that himself.”

“Nah, not the mage kid, one of his little brothers. You know, the one with the mullet?”

“That describes half of Kirkwall, Varric.”

He chuckled before rubbing his chin thoughtfully, a look in his eyes that could only mean one thing…

“What are you thinking?” Hawke asked in an accusatory manner.

“I’m just… wondering what I’d say if _I_ wrote you a love letter.”

“Oh.”

She shifted slightly, sloshing a bit of wine on the cushion.

“Have you gone soft on me, Varric?”

“I’ve always been soft on you, Peaches,” he added with a wink. “But that definitely wouldn’t be the best opening for a love letter. Let’s see…”

“Are you about to dictate a letter to the palace spies?” she asked with drunken delight. “Hmm. Perhaps their handwriting is better than yours…

“ _Dear Hawke,”_ she began, adopting a low and gravelly tone that was a poor impression of Varric’s voice. “ _I’ve followed after you these years because you’ve got a nice ass. Love, Varric_.”

“Charming, and not altogether untrue, but a drunken confession doesn’t usually make for a great love letter.”

“And yet ironically it marks the start of most relationships.”

"True. But see, if I were to write you a proper love letter, I probably wouldn’t call you by your last name.”

“You’ve always called me by my last name, the ‘Peaches’ incident from a moment ago notwithstanding. You even tried to argue it was a pet name at one point to make up for your lack of nominative affection for me.”

“Hawke, it is a rare moment where I experience any lack of affection for you.”

“Well then, how would you address me in this love letter of yours?”

She would never understand how this entire conversation led to Varric verbally composing a love letter to her, nor would she fully understand why such a playful conversation made her entire body feel vulnerable and exposed in a way she wasn’t familiar with.

“ _My Dearest Marian,_ ” Varric began.

Hawke stretched onto her side and propped her head upon her hand as she listened, a genuine smile spreading across her face at the sound of Varric speaking her name. “Not bad.”

“ _What can I say in a letter that I’ve never said to you face to face?”_ He paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes drifting to the (hopefully) imaginary scribes hiding in the rafters. _“Ever since I first saw you bartering in Lowtown_ , _I knew I had to meet you—and not just because you were the only person in Kirkwall that could keep Bartrand from getting us killed in the Deep Roads._ ”

She paused mid-sip. “We didn’t meet in Lowtown…”

“Shh, don’t interrupt."

He cleared his throat before continuing.

 _“Even before I met you, I could see that spark you carried inside of you. It was this indelible quality that kept you from disappearing to Darktown with all the other refugees. It helped you not only survive, but_ thrive _._

_“That same quality keeps you laughing in the face of adversity, always with a mischievous glint in those electric blue eyes…”_

Hawke forgot about her wine.

“ _Eyes hiding behind jagged locks of black hair I itch to brush aside more often than I care to admit… but like most humans, you remain just a hair out of reach.”_

She would laugh at his poor attempt at humor were it not for the acute warmth building between her thighs.

“ _Whenever we’re apart I miss your voice, your humor, the way you move in a fight. You’re the only person I’ve ever known who makes me feel I might leave this world a better place than I found it, even if it’s just because I stood at your side. Your story is my favorite one to tell, but not because you’re the Champion, and not because you’ve killed dragons or quelled a Qunari invasion. Your story is my favorite simply because it’s yours.”_

 _C_ rickets chirped in the distance, filling the silence that followed. Varric didn’t even blink as he watched her, and Hawke suddenly realized she was holding her breath.

Somehow, he kept finding ways to render her speechless.

“ _All I can ask of you is that you continue to let me be part of that story._

_Until we meet again, I forever remain yours,_

_Varric.”_

She licked her lips and swallowed. Their bodies had inclined towards each other throughout the composition of this letter, the only flaw of which was that he had not actually written it down. Drunk as she was, Hawke had a feeling she would remember every word.

“So," he began, his casual tone forced. "Too cheesy, or not cheesy enough?”

“We first met in Hightown, not Lowtown.”

Varric lifted a finger to brush those stubborn wisps of hair from her eyes. “That’s not the first place I saw you.”

“Is it bad that I find your similarity to a deranged stalker strangely charming?”

“Probably,” he breathed against her chin.

She sighed against his lips and sank into a kiss that felt like it had begun on the fist day they met. His empty glass of wine tipped onto the carpet while hers shattered against the hearth, both forgotten and ignored as the warmth of his palm travelled from her face to the small of her back. She clutched the collar of his jacket and rolled onto her back, pulling him with her. Varric balanced his weight on one elbow while he settled his hips between her legs.

“Hawke, I… think we’re getting carried away…”

“Maybe,” she murmured against his lips, her fingers lacing through the back of his hair.

“We’re drunk,” he added, tracing a finger beneath the loose collar of her jacket.

“Definitely,” she agreed, curling the tip of her tongue behind his upper lip.

Varric moaned. “Should I go?”

“This is your room.”

“ _Fuck_.”

He propped himself up on his palms and looked down at her breathlessly. She tugged at the material of his jacket at his sides as she stared back him, her expression puzzled.

“What?” she asked.

“I can’t think of a single thing to say that won’t ruin this moment, but I can think of a dozen things that will.”

She took a deep breath and released it slowly, a method she often employed in the heat of battle to center herself. “Perhaps then that’s our cue to call it a night.”

Varric hesitated before nodding and pushing off of her, offering her a hand as he stood. Their fingers lingered in each other’s palms as he pulled her to her feet, the room swaying as she struggled to maintain upright.

“I wonder how Junior’s fairing with the ladies,” Varric asked, injecting the atmosphere with some levity as he and Hawke swayed to the door.

She chuckled as she turned the bolt, but paused after opening the door.

The thing about drinking isn’t that it makes you do stupid things; it simply took away your fear to do them.

“I always wondered what it would feel like to kiss you.”

She could practically hear his eyebrows shoot to his forehead. “Did I live up to your expectations?”

He was trying to keep the mood casual after carefully crafting an atmosphere of feelings and arousal. Hawke wasn’t sure if it was because he regretted doing so or if he thought she did.

She turned to face him, her hand resting on the other side of the door. “Let’s say it’s only what little remains of my good sense that’s keeping me from locking us both in here ‘til morning.”

“I see,” he replied carefully. “Just… what exactly is it your good sense is telling you?”

Hawke smiled. “That you’re a better writer than I give you credit for, and that we ought not do anything else that I might forget by morning.”

“Ha,” he chuckled. “Your good sense isn’t as drunk as mine.”

Her good sense thought it prudent not to remind him that moments ago he literally had to peel himself off of her.

“Goodnight, Varric.”

“Goodnight, Marian.”

Her fingers curled around the edge of the door as she hesitated, but then she shut it behind her and stumbled down the hallway towards an almost identical room with her name card dangling from a brass knocker. She dove face-first onto the downy mattress and moaned at the softness of the duvet before rolling on her back and staring up at the rafters.

“Alright, secret scribes,” she called. “Did you catch any of that?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
